


Anywhere But Here (Two Medics in the Fog)

by BristlingBassoon



Category: Band of Brothers (TV 2001), Downton Abbey
Genre: Bastogne, M/M, Ships Passing In the Night, They're both medics, Time slip, World War I, World War II, belgium - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:01:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28054317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BristlingBassoon/pseuds/BristlingBassoon
Summary: Gene knows what death feels like. He knows the rubbery cold slackness of it, the heaviness of a dead man’s limb.This is not the kiss of a dead man.
Relationships: Eugene Roe/Thomas Barrow
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	Anywhere But Here (Two Medics in the Fog)

**Author's Note:**

> I remembered that Thomas is a medic too, and this just...occurred to me. I know it's weird. 
> 
> I am going for a time slip, please do not think too hard about the geography and how the fronts of world war 1 and 2 probably didn't cover exactly the same ground.

He's bone tired but he can’t settle down to sleep without walking the line one last time. During the barrage he didn’t get to everyone, and the chance that there might be a spare bandage, an unused syrette, something that might save a man, it keeps him moving. Feet leaden, every step a heave. His face feels like it will shatter in the cold.

The night is misty, a thick, heavy mist, a deadening blanket. It hushes the men, but can’t quiet the sounds of battle.

He thinks he might have missed the last foxhole, but he decides to keep going. Might reach the next battalion soon, might find someone with something he can use. By rights he should take one of the men with him, but he can’t face turning back.

He imagines he can smell the pine, but truth be told his nose is so cold he can’t smell much of anything at all, but he can see - almost, just - oh shit, a figure up ahead, an ambush -

When fear subsides, the training kicks in. As quietly as he can he makes his way to the nearest tree and crouches behind it. Perhaps from here he can bluff his way out of it, or at least hide until the moment passes.

The figure walks forward, slowly and steadily crunching through the snow, head down. A man. Dressed in an unfamiliar uniform, perhaps a dress uniform. Not Kraut, but not one of theirs. Belgian, maybe? Dutch? God, they wouldn’t have Russians out here would they?

He walks closer. He’s wearing a flat-brimmed metal helmet and carrying a satchel. Gene can make out the edge of a sharp, cold face through the fog. The man moves his shoulder, brushing past an overhanging branch, and through the fall of snow, Gene sees it. The red cross on his arm.

He chances it. Calls out a greeting in French - try French first, they are in Belgium after all.

The man whisks around, trying to find the source of the voice.

“Bonsoir, monsieur,” Gene says, and steps out from behind the tree.

He can see him a lot better now. Breath puffing from his nose and mouth. He’s got a straight nose, high cheekbones. Hard to make out his hair, but going by the brows and lashes, it must be dark. The sort of face one might call handsome under different circumstances.

The man’s mouth is open slightly, and under the shadow of the helmet brim, his brow looks furrowed. When he finally talks, it’s in a thick, unfamiliar accent, but it’s English all the same.

“I don’t speak French.”

Gene nods. He glances at the soldier’s satchel, recognising it as a medical bag. “You doing a supply run too? We’ve run out. You wouldn’t have anything spare - morphine, bandages? They can’t do a drop because of the fog.”

Shit. He probably shouldn’t have mentioned all that. The guy’s a medic, sure, but Gene has no idea who he is, only his eyes to tell him that the guy has a red cross and he’s not carrying a rifle. A temporary safety at least, but this guy could go back to whatever camp he’s at, whisper to his commander the information that the 101st has nothing, that an attack will leave them bleeding out in the snow.

“Where are you from?” Gene says.

The man gives him an odd look.

“Yorkshire,” he says, in a slow, drawling voice. His eyes flick down, and then up, and Gene realises he’s being studied. He can only imagine how he looks. Nose cold, fingers blue, ice rimming his helmet. _Where’s his coat_ , he imagines the man thinking. _Who’d be stupid enough to be out here in the snow with no cold weather gear?_

Having completed his appraisal, the man reaches into his pocket - Gene winces, flinches - but manages to calm his racing heart when the gloved hand emerges, holding a packet of cigarettes. He wordlessly offers one. Gene takes it, numb hands trembling.

“What about you?” the man says, looking down at the flame of his lighter. “Never heard an accent like that before. Where are _you_ from?”

“Louisiana,” Gene says.

The man sucks on his cigarette. Gene puts his own in his mouth and waits for the lighter, only for the man to dip his head to his, cigarettes touching. He tips his helmet back a little so their heads don’t clink, and looks straight into Gene’s eyes while Gene draws in. The cigarette catches, and the man draws back slowly. He’s smiling a little.

Through the trees, they hear distant singing, a choir of disembodied voices.

“Carols,” the man says, grinning wearily. “Funny to think they sing them too.”

“I think they came up with most of them,” Gene replies.

“That so.” It’s not much of a question.

The cigarette is an unfamiliar brand. Something English, he supposes. Not Luckys at any rate, not their crappy army-issue cigarettes either, although there’s something foul and sweet on the smoke. It’s just a different kind of bad from what he’s used to. The heat of the smoke helps thaw him a little at any rate.

The singing goes on. Melancholy in the thin grey light.

“Said we’d be in Berlin by Christmas,” Gene says.

The man twitches one of his dark brows, and lets out a small amused huff. “They said we’d be _home_ by Christmas.” He narrows his eyes. “And here we all are, stuck in the freezing bloody cold, listening to the Hun singing.”

_Home by Christmas. The Hun._ Gene looks again at the man, looks at his strange, unfamiliar uniform - or maybe it’s familiar, he might have seen it on a statue somewhere, or in a photograph in his parents’ album.

He’s struck with a sick, plummeting realisation that the man in front of him is dead.

“Tell me about Louisiana,” the ghost says suddenly.

“Why?” Gene asks, with a furrowed brow.

“Just like to imagine I’m somewhere else for a change. Anywhere but here.”

He thinks of running for a moment. Thinks of putting his hand forward, to see if it would pass through the dead man. But the cigarette in his mouth is real, burning, burning down. The smoke - could he imagine that? But the man -

Gene shrugs, and decides to give it a shot. He lets the cigarette drop to the icy ground and tries to paint a picture of his home. Southern live oaks dripping with Spanish moss, the shimmering hazy heat in summer. The taste of crawfish, of alligator, of red beans and rice on washing day. Shotgun houses, porches painted up with haint blue to keep the ghosts away. The river, flooding. Sitting in a boat, knees up to your chin, waiting for the fish to bite.

The dead man looks at him intently the whole time.

“Sounds very different from where I’m from. When this is over, I should like to visit.”

He’s giving Gene a genuine smile now, sweet and warm.

Gene smiles back despite himself. The conjuring-up of his home is making him feel a softness as ill-defined as the mist. He keeps on, bringing up small details. Speaking French with his grandmére, but English at school. A year spent without shoes. The taste of cornbread. Christ, why did he start thinking of it - he might cry now.

When Gene runs out of things to say, the man dips his face towards him again and kisses him.

His hand is on Gene’s cheek, steady, and his mouth is the warmest thing Gene’s felt in weeks.

Gene knows what death feels like. He knows the rubbery cold slackness of it, the heaviness of a dead man’s limb.

This is not the kiss of a dead man.

The man must notice his stillness, for he takes his hand away carefully, and draws away. His face is smooth once again, but Gene spots a flicker of pain.

“Are you alright?” Gene asks softly, instinctively. If the man has a human body, he might be hurt. Medic or not, he can’t be expected to heal himself.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” the man says with a slight, pacifying smile. He touches Gene on the shoulder awkwardly. Gene tries to return the smile, but his muscles won’t do much more than twitch in the cold. When the man speaks again, his voice is small enough to be drawn away by the wind. “Only sometimes, I wish it did.”

What is he for then, if not to soothe the hurts of man?

Gene puts his own icy hand up to the man’s cheek - oh, it’s almost as cold as his, but when he brushes the man’s neck, he can feel the pulse there, beating, beating -

He stands on tiptoe, and kisses him back.

It’s strange. He doesn’t feel anything of it. Just seems the right thing to do somehow, the foregone conclusion of a dream.

The man’s mouth moves against his, and he hears a sound that suggests a sob. Gene pushes back the man’s helmet and runs his frozen fingers through his dark hair. He cups his face with his hands, draws the man to him and kisses like he’s trying to wake him. It’s fierce and crushing and hot to kiss a man, he finds, and it makes him think he’s anywhere but here.

When he breaks away, the man looks at him with a pained tenderness. The wetness in his eyes might just be a tear from the wind, Gene thinks.

“We all have to take comfort where we can.”

The man nods, and reaches for his helmet. When he’s replaced it, hiding that swoop of dark hair, he seems to settle, regaining that smooth, confident look he had before. It’s not a look he’s ever seen on a medic, but the man’s dead, after all. He can’t be frightened of anything anymore.

“Are you alright?” the man says eventually, an echo of Gene’s earlier words.

Gene nods. The man begins rummaging in his bag, and pulls out a small canvas pouch.

“Here - “ he says, in that strange burr of his. “Take them.”

Gene opens the flap to find three tightly rolled bandages, and pads of gauze. He looks at the man questioningly.

“Haven’t got any morphine,” the man says. “They only have it at the aid station.”

Gene swallows, feeling the icy air gather in his throat. “Are you sure you can spare it?”

“You’re welcome to it all,” the man says, giving Gene another two loose bandages. He’s smiling oddly now, the smile you wear when there’s nothing much to smile about. “I won’t need them. I’m going home soon, anyway.”

He flicks the lighter open and Gene watches the tiny glow of the biggest fire in the forest. The man nods to him one last time and walks away, fading into the fog.


End file.
